Chapter 23
CHAPTER 23
L ucy stood in her kitchen, a pot of coffee brewing on the counter as the afternoon sun streamed through the windows. She drummed her fingers on the counter, glancing at the clock. Her morning had been split between obsessively checking her email for a reply from Ethan and trying to focus on the proposal plans.
"Lucy? I'm here!" Hannah's voice rang out from the front of the house, followed by the familiar thud of her bag hitting the entryway bench. "And I smell coffee!"
"Perfect timing—it just finished," Lucy called back, already reaching for their usual mugs—Hannah's chipped blue one from their beach trip three summers ago, and her own faded red one that Hannah had drawn a wonky heart on in Sharpie years ago.
Hannah appeared in the kitchen doorway, notebook in hand and determination written across her face. "Ready to make this proposal plan actually happen?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," Lucy said, sliding Hannah's coffee across the counter. "Though I still think we should've gone with your original idea of training seagulls to spell out 'Marry Me' with rose petals."
Hannah snorted into her coffee. "Shut up. I was sleep deprived when I suggested that."
They migrated to the dining table, where Lucy had already spread out her notes—a chaos of scribbled ideas and timeline drafts that only she could decipher. Hannah dropped into her usual chair, flipping open her perfectly organized notebook. Some things never changed.
"Okay," Lucy said, pushing her hair behind her ears in what Hannah recognized as her let's-get-serious gesture. "Six o'clock tomorrow at the vineyard. Jack's going with the grape emergency story to get Rachel there."
"Which she'll totally fall for because the only thing she loves more than those vines is Everly," Hannah said, already writing. She glanced up with a grin. "Remember when she made us all help with the harvest last year?"
"My back still hasn't forgiven her," Lucy groaned. "But speaking of tiny laborers—Everly's still good to go in her princess dress?"
"Yep. I've got backup snacks and her favorite teddy bear ready in case of a royal meltdown. Do you have any idea how difficult it was for me to convince her to take it off? Rachel has no idea how I managed it, but I used the excuse that it’s time she make progress from her separation anxiety. I explained that I was going to get it cleaned for her. That dress represents more security than any blanket, but it’s starting to smell.” Hannah paused. "You've got the camera stuff handled?"
Lucy nodded, taking a sip of coffee. "Extra battery, memory cards, the works. And I called The Coastal Table for dinner—they're doing all their favorites. Small plates, nothing too fancy, and they didn’t mind doing it for us. I mean it’s only four adults and a child."
"Perfect. Rachel would hate anything over the top." Hannah scribbled something else down. "What about decorations?"
"Just some fairy lights and fresh flowers for the table. Simple, elegant?—"
"Very Rachel," they said in unison, then laughed.
They spent the next hour fine-tuning every detail, their empty coffee mugs forgotten. Hannah suggested backup plans for every possible Everly scenario, while Lucy triple-checked her photography timeline. It felt good, natural, planning something this special together.
Hannah stretched, her spine cracking. "What are we doing about our cars though? Won’t she wonder why you’re there?”
Lucy nodded. “I’ve already got that covered. I asked Rachel if she minded if I stopped by to take some photos of the vineyard as inspiration for my latest book. You and Everly stay in your car until they’re out in the field. She won’t see you drive in and she expects me to be there anyway.”
Hannah clapped her hands. “I think we've nailed it. This is going to be amazing."
Lucy smiled, but her eyes drifted to her phone on the table. Still no email notification.
"You keep looking at your phone. What’s going on?” Hannah asked.
Lucy had initially been hesitant to tell anyone about her email to Ethan, but it was hard keep her hopes to herself.
“Oh, Lucy, I’ve always thought you two weren’t finished. He'll write back," Hannah said softly, reading her sister's mind the way she'd been doing since they were kids. She paused, then added, "Though you know what? These past months without him have been good for you too."
Lucy looked up, surprised. "Yeah?"
"Come on, Luce. Look at everything you've done. Your writing is amazing and your books are selling like crazy. You’re practically famous."
"Hardly famous," Lucy smiled, leaning back in her chair. "You’ve grown as well. Remember how terrified you were to buy power tools?"
"Absolutely. Now I'm like some kind of drill queen." Hannah laughed, then grew thoughtful. "You know what's weird? When Rachel and Jack first got together, I felt this pressure, like I needed to find my person too. But these past couple years…" She trailed off, searching for the words.
"You found yourself instead?" Lucy offered.
"Exactly. I mean, Sam's great, and I'm excited about tonight. But I'm not…I don't know. I'm not waiting for him to complete me or whatever that saying is. I'm already complete."
Lucy nodded slowly. "I get that. When Ethan and I split up, everyone kept trying to set me up, like being single was some kind of illness that needed curing."
"Remember that dentist Rachel tried to fix you up with?"
"Don't remind me." Lucy groaned. "But you know what? Once I stopped trying to date just to date, I started really enjoying my own company. Like, actually looking forward to quiet nights at home with my writing and finding time to read a stack of books I never seemed to get to, not to mention that ridiculous face mask collection."
Hannah grinned. "The green tea ones that make you look like a swamp monster?"
"They're therapeutic, thank you very much. But seriously, it's nice knowing that whatever happens—with Ethan, or with anyone—I'm okay on my own. More than okay."
"Same," Hannah nodded. "Though I still steal your face masks now and then."
"I knew it!" Lucy exclaimed. "Wait, is that what happened to the honey lavender one?"
Hannah glanced at the clock in an exaggerated motion. "Would you look at the time? I have a jazz thing to get to!"
Lucy threw up her hands, laughing. "You're impossible. Go. Have fun with Sam."
Hannah jumped up, gathering her things in a whirlwind. "What do I wear? Why didn't you remind me earlier?"
"Because watching you panic is fun." Lucy grinned, following her sister to the door. "Wear that green top you stole from me last month."
"I borrowed it," Hannah corrected, already halfway out. "And I'm keeping it. Love you!"
"Love you too," Lucy called after her. "I want details tomorrow!"
"You'll get them whether you want them or not!"
Lucy smiled as she closed the door, turning back to the quiet house. Her phone sat silent on the table, but somehow, after plotting happiness for others with her sister, the waiting didn't feel quite so heavy.
Lucy made herself a cup of tea and then sat cross-legged on the floor of her living room, Jenna’s papers spread out around her like pieces of an unsolved puzzle. Her heart tightened as she sifted through the handwritten pages—journals, fragments of short stories, poetry—all of it steeped in Jenna’s unmistakable voice. It was raw, honest, and achingly beautiful, but beneath the beauty lay something darker, a thread of sadness Lucy couldn’t ignore.
She picked up a page from one of Jenna’s journals, the paper worn at the edges as though it had been read many times. Jenna’s handwriting slanted unevenly, the words pressed into the page with a force that mirrored the emotion behind them.
“Sometimes it feels like I’m screaming underwater and no one can hear me. I smile, I laugh, but it’s all just noise. They don’t see what’s inside. They don’t want to.”
Lucy’s breath caught in her throat. She set the page down, her fingers trembling. The memory of Jenna’s laughter—light and carefree—flashed in her mind. How could someone who seemed so full of life be writing words like these?
She smiled as she remembered the time Jenna told her she was lucky to have siblings and wished she could be the fourth Sea Glass Girl. Back then, Lucy had no problem giving up a sister or two to Jenna and said so.
You want them? You can have them. Just pick, or take both, I won’t mind, and I’m sure my family won’t care either.
Now, Lucy began to comprehend how unhappy Jenna was. It was a painful realization, but necessary for Lucy to understand her friend.
Her gaze fell on a stack of short stories Jenna had been working on. One in particular caught her eye—a story about a girl trapped in a small coastal town, longing to escape but feeling tethered by invisible chains. The protagonist’s voice was hauntingly familiar, and as Lucy read, it became painfully clear that Jenna wasn’t writing fiction. She was writing about herself.
Lucy closed her eyes, the room around her fading as she was pulled into the past. She was seventeen again, standing on the pier with Jenna, Romy and two other girls. Jenna had been laughing, teasing them about something Lucy couldn’t remember now. The sun had been bright, the water glittering like glass. It had seemed like such an ordinary day.
But now, reading Jenna’s words, Lucy wondered how much she had missed. Had there been signs, things she should have noticed? She thought of the times Jenna had canceled plans last minute, the times she’d brushed off questions about how she was feeling with a breezy smile and a quick change of subject. At the time, Lucy had thought nothing of it. They were teenagers; everyone had their moods. But now she wasn’t so sure.
Her eyes returned to the journals, scanning the pages for answers. Another entry stood out:
“I thought if I told them, they’d understand. But they’d just call me dramatic or tell me to get over it. I don’t even know how to start explaining what this feels like. Maybe I don’t want to. Maybe it’s better if I just keep it to myself.”
Tears blurred Lucy’s vision. How could she have been so blind? She had been Jenna’s best friend. She should have seen it, should have known something was wrong. But the truth was, she hadn’t. She’d been so caught up in her own life—getting ready for college, dreaming of the future—that she hadn’t looked closely enough at the friend standing beside her.
And then, she read the words again… “Sometimes it feels like I’m screaming underwater.” Jenna’s choice of words felt like a clue, a sign of some sort.
Lucy wiped her cheeks and set the journal aside. Among the papers was a photo of the three of them: Lucy, Jenna, and Romy, arms slung around each other, grinning at the camera. Jenna’s eyes sparkled with mischief, but now Lucy wondered how much of that sparkle had been real and how much had been a mask.
She sat back, her hands falling to her lap. The pieces weren’t adding up, and the more she tried to make sense of it, the more questions arose. She had been there the day Jenna drowned, had seen it happen—but the details were hazy, like a dream she couldn’t quite grasp. All she knew was that one moment Jenna was there, and the next she wasn’t. They had screamed, someone had jumped in after her, and then the paramedics had come. Everything after that was a blur.
There was only one person who might have the answers she needed.
Lucy reached for her phone, her fingers hovering over the screen as she debated whether to follow through. She hadn’t spoken to Jenna’s mother in years. After the funeral, their lives had drifted apart, and Lucy had buried her grief under layers of busyness and avoidance. But now, sitting here with Jenna’s words spread around her, she knew she couldn’t avoid it any longer.
“I need to know,” Lucy murmured to herself, her voice trembling. She was about to call Rachel to see if she had the Fletchers’ phone number but changed her mind. Something this important needed to be handled in person. It had been fifteen years since she’d stepped inside their home and her heart raced at the thought of returning.
She didn’t know what Mrs. Fletcher would say or if she’d even want to see her. But Lucy knew one thing for certain: she couldn’t leave this chapter of her life unfinished. She owed it to Jenna’s memory—and to Romy, who seemed to be trapped in a past without closure. Whatever awaited her, Lucy promised herself one thing: she would uncover the truth. The future could wait; closure couldn’t.